


Some Rest For The Wicked

by lightsaroundyourvanity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightsaroundyourvanity/pseuds/lightsaroundyourvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean falls asleep sitting on Castiel's trenchcoat. Fluffy one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Rest For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this could be read as either Destiel or as just really, REALLY bromantic.

  “That was too goddamn close,” Dean grumbles, shucking his sludge-covered jacket and hanging it neatly on the back of a chair. Castiel’s clothing is fine: he had cleaned them magically on the way home. He sits gingerly on the edge of Dean’s bed as Dean continues to shuffle around the room, muttering to himself, pouring two tumblers of luxurious Men of Letters scotch. He hands one to Castiel and sits down next to him on the bed with a heavy thump. 

  “I fucking hate witches. Remind me why we took this case again?” 

  “You said you needed to stretch your legs.” Castiel sips at his drink. He likes scotch, he thinks, especially now that he has finally been introduced to “the good stuff.” 

  Dean groans, and downs his glass in one swallow. “Feel like I could sleep for a month,” he mumbles, and flops onto his back. 

  “A month would be an improvement on four hours,” Castiel says agreeably. 

  Dean doesn’t answer. Castiel peers over and sees that the hunter is already asleep, sludgy clothes and all. His mouth is hanging half open and he’s clutching his empty tumbler like it’s a totem.  

  Castiel sighs, takes the glass from Dean’s hands, and puts it on the floor. He tries to stand up and quickly learns that the heavy weight of Dean’s thigh is pinning down his coat.  

  “Dean,” Castiel hisses, “Dean, you’re sitting on me. I can’t get up.” 

  Dean responds by snoring. 

  Castiel has two options: He can wake Dean up, get him to roll over, and he will be free. Or he can teleport, which will almost certainly startle Dean into waking up anyway.  

  Dean looks younger when he sleeps, his jaw slack instead of angry, the tension melting from his shoulders. There’s a sweetness to him that Castiel only ever sees in rare flashes, when Dean manages to mention his family without grief. And Dean gets so little sleep, and even less that is actually peaceful... 

  Castiel wouldn’t wake him for the world. 

  He finishes his drink, and places his glass on the floor next to Dean’s. Then he lies flat on his back and lets his eyes flutter closed. Enjoys the soft lull of rest and the warm press of Dean’s leg against his own. 

  If Sam catches them like this in the morning, Castiel knows that neither of them will hear the end of it, but right now, he is too content to care.


End file.
